


Do It

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [11]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Choking, Crying, Dirty Talk, Episode s02e04: Nothing Like it in the World, Feral Butcher, Grieving Butcher, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Nipple Play, Nonsense, Painplay, Pet Names, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Singing, Song: And So It Goes (Billy Joel), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Hughie picks up the phone without really thinking, answers it with low expectations and a non-committal, “What’s up?”And Butcher responds with the low, warm voice Hughie’s only ever heard him use during sex, and he says, “Hey, beautiful.”So of course, Hughie panics.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Series: Humanity [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448371
Comments: 55
Kudos: 454





	Do It

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to hear the (very sad) song featured in this installment before it comes up, [it’s here, on youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHO6a2H-pqY&ab_channel=billyjoelVEVO). 
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful Trick as always, for letting me ramble on about this chapter and choosing the most appropriate song I’ve ever heard, for these two.

Hughie picks up the phone without really thinking. He hasn’t seen Butcher in a while but it’s not exactly unusual for him to fuck off somewhere without bothering to tell Hughie what he’s doing, so he answers it with low expectations and a non-committal, “What’s up?”

And Butcher responds with the low, warm voice Hughie’s only ever heard him use during sex, and he says, “Hey, beautiful.”

So of course, Hughie panics.

“Hey, are- are you dying? What's happening, are you okay-“

Butcher entirely ignores his words, but his breathing is even, if a bit shaky when he asks, “Is there- a Billy Joel song. About- fuck, dedicating your life to someone for- forever- and then finding out they don't want you.”

Hughie feels Butcher’s grief like it’s stabbing through his own heart. He’d suspected that Butcher knew something, that he was closer to finding Becca than he’d let on to any of them. He’d been preparing himself for loss, to let Butcher go with dignity and an agonising selflessness. He’d never expected this.

“Oh, shit. I'm sorry,” he says, even though it’s fucking meaningless, nothing to even begin to stem the tide of what Butcher must be feeling, the loss of not just his wife but the future he’d planned and all the time he’d spent devoted to her.

“Is there a fucking song.” Butcher just repeats, with a greater intensity.

Oh, boy. He’s really not doing well, but Hughie knows that back-catalogue like he knows his own family, and he finds himself saying, “Uhh- weirdly, kinda.”

“I wanna hear it.”

“Okay. Lemme bring up the video-“ Hughie fumbles with his phone, trying to find the speaker button before he misses anything important in Butcher’s words.

“No! You stay right here.”

“I can stay on the call, I'm just gunna play it-“

“No. Don’t go anywhere. Just sing it.”

Hughie’s voice goes shrill at the prospect. “Uhhh, I don't think you've ever heard me sing.”

“Please, Hughie.”

And what the fuck is he supposed to say, when Butcher’s lost everything that gives him purpose, and all he wants is a song.

He knows the words, of course he does, but his voice still cracks a few times, going in.  _ “In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong. To heal the wounds from lovers past- until a new one comes along.” _

Hughie realises he’s in trouble with his choice of song pretty much at that point, but it’s too fucking late now. All he can do is keep his panic from showing in his voice. He hadn’t realised the precise significance of the words before he sang them himself, but Butcher’s clearly going through something and Hughie needs to keep him on the line, can do nothing but be here for him, keep going through the pain in his throat. This song always makes him want to cry, but it’s never felt quite as raw before.

With every line, it gets worse, until the final one where he’s all-but handing over his bloody heart on a platter, trying so hard not to make this about him, mentally pleading with Butcher to see his feelings for Becca in these words, and not an unintentional confession from Hughie.  _ “So I would choose to be with you. That's if the choice were mine to make. But you can make decisions too, and you can have this heart to break.” _

The song is sad, heartfelt, absolutely beautiful. Hughie’s always loved it. He- doesn’t think Butcher notices his conflict, though, is clearly caught up in his own grief, too lost to take that burden as well as his own. The last couple of lines come out shaky, but Hughie makes it through,  _ “And so it goes, and so it goes. And you’re the only one who knows.” _

And then his heart aches with sympathy and sorrow as, strangled, hitching and genuine, Butcher cries.

Hughie wonders where he is, whether he’s in the car leaning against the steering wheel, in a motel somewhere curled up on the bed, illegally trespassing somewhere just to get off the street. It doesn’t sound like he’s outside, and Hughie doesn’t think he’d be able to express this level of emotion if he were.

It’s quite some time before Hughie hears those heart-wrenching sounds fade, longer still before he dares to say, gently, “Butcher. Come home.”

There’s a muffled sob and Hughie wants to hug him so badly it hurts, to hold Butcher up like he’s been held so many times. He’s the last person anyone with any sense comes to for comfort; he’s far too awkward for that, but he’d do anything to make this just a little easier.

“Eight years. I don’t even know who I am without her.”

“I do.” If Hughie can’t be comforting, he can at least be honest. “You're incredible. Smart, and resourceful. Charismatic. So fucking strong. Unfairly hot. Terrible fashion sense. Worse taste in music. Butcher, you've treated me worse than anyone, and I still want you back. What does that tell you?”

Butcher sniffs. “That you're unknowingly a victim who's had their confidence eroded over an extended period of time so they wildly underestimate their own worth and the extent of their dependency.”

Okay, that’s- possibly accurate. Not for the first time, he wonders about Butcher, everything about him that Hughie doesn’t know. That’s most things about him, but usually Hughie is satisfied to let him be who he is, in the moment. Or he’s too mad at him to care. Right now, he just needs to know he’s okay. An emotional Butcher is an exceptionally dangerous one, so Hughie does his best to at least take the edge off, and to remind him he’s cared for. Because despite everything, he is.

“It tells you that just having you around makes it worth it. Tell me where you are. We'll come get you.”

“Oh, no. Wasn't born yesterday. If I tell you where I am then you'll come find me.”

Okay- Butcher’s not exactly been his usual resilient self throughout this conversation but this is the first time he’s outright made no sense. “Are you drunk?”

He doesn’t get a reply. If he’s honest, he didn’t really expect one. Butcher’s still busy with his feelings, and there’s no room for anything but his confession, and his broken confusion, “I thought I'd grieved before. How is there still any left?”

“There's always some left. You just- learn to live around it.” That one Hughie knows, and Butcher’s answering hum seems to concede that.

In the next moment though, he asks, “Are you scared of me?” Like it’s something that occurred to him recently, or something of significance.

Hughie wonders if he’ll ever know what Becca said to him, whether she let him down gently or just came out and said it. Quietly, as though it might soften the blow in any way, he says, “I'm scared of what you'll do. You've gone off, again. Without your canary.”

“So I might go too far.”

No, that’s not it. Those are MM’s words, not Butcher’s, or Hughie’s. “You might die.”

“But you'd save me.”

“Always.” Hughie means it, finds himself smiling at the prospect of being allowed to do such a thing. He’s done it before, for the others. As they have, for him. “We all would.”

“If you would thank me... let it be for yourself alone.”

Butcher’s been a bit vague throughout this frankly bizarre conversation but this time, the words are distant, once removed, like the fading of a memory. Hughie has no fucking clue what they mean. “What?”

“Your family owe me nothing. I thought only of you.”

“Butcher, what the fuck are you saying?”

“That the thought of giving happiness to you might add force to my- inductions? No, that’s not right...”

Hughie admits defeat. Butcher is on a whole other fucking plane of existence right now. Maybe he’s taken something. Hughie listens to him rambling to himself with half his attention, goes in search of MM.

“Do you know where Butcher is?” he holds his phone away to ask, when he finds him at the table, on his computer. Looking guilty, so Hughie guesses he knew Butcher was going, and chose not to tell him.

“Is that him? Can't he tell you?”

In answer, Hughie presses the speaker button, Butcher’s voice vague and lost between them. “No, it's I believe I thought. Only of you. You are too generous to trifle...”

Something does vaguely ring a bell in Hughie’s memory, then. “Is that Shakespeare?”

“Jane Austen.” MM corrects, with a frown, and then raised eyebrows. “What? I read.”

“Because one word. One word will silence me on this topic forever.”

Hughie sees MM’s eyes widen in recognition, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask about it before MM slams his fists down on the table, interrupting the flow of Butcher’s rambling. “Butcher! Where are you!”

It works. Kind of. Butcher snaps out of it to say, “Oh. Hi MM. Put Hughie back on.”

“Butcher-“ MM attempts.

“Put Hughie back on!”

MM throws up his hands, gives Hughie a helpless look. “I'll go look through his stuff,” he mouths, as he leaves Hughie to it.

And Butcher sighs. Like this is all some huge convenience, like he isn’t the one who actually made the call in the first place. “You wanna know where I am?”

“Yes!”

“Then you do something for me, first.”

Hughie is definitely going to regret this, but, “Okay,” he agrees, doubtfully, dreading-

“Put your hand in your pants.”

From the other side of the room comes the sound of MM breaking something. Hughie quickly takes Butcher off speaker, holds his phone to his ear to insist, “I'm not doing that.”

“Please, baby. I wanna hear you. Haven't made you scream for me in so long.”

Oh, fuck. Fuck, Hughie hasn’t heard the dangerous rumble in Butcher’s tone recently and it hits him hard, shoots straight to his cock. This is so fucking wrong; Butcher is messed up and out of it, and there’s so much he doesn’t know. It just wouldn’t be right, not for him, and not for anyone in this fucking place. Probably not for Hughie either, although that doesn’t really seem to matter at the moment.

“I'm not gunna- my room is made out of cardboard,” he says, instead of any of that. He’s struggling to find the breath for words.

“Just some of your sweet little moans, then. Like when I'd tell you how good you were being. When I'd bite you and you'd lean into the pain.”

“Butcher-” Fuck, this is bad. Hughie has only ever been able to say no because Butcher lets him but this is too much; he’s not being given time to recover.

“Nobody says my name like you do. Like a prayer. When all I'm doing is exactly what I want. I touch you so selfishly. I feel you, and I taste you, and it's all for me, because making you come apart is the ultimate reward.”

“You're drunk, we shouldn't be doing this,” comes out feeble and vague. Hughie could hang up the phone now, if he really wanted to stop. He thinks they both know that he won’t.

“Doing what. We're just talking. Thought you weren't gunna do what I said.”

“I- fuck.” Because Hughie’s in his room, with the door closed, leaning back against it with his palm pressed against the growing bulge in his jeans, trying desperately to relieve the ache while his phone’s pressed to his ear and he savours every word. His heart’s racing. He has never thought that he might be able to get off to just the sound of someone else’s voice until this moment.

And Butcher’s not finished.

“Love your cock, Hughie. You remember fucking me with it? How you slid right in because I wanted you so badly. Should I touch myself there? Thinking about you?”

Oh, God. It’s too much. Without thinking, without softening the blow, just knowing he has to get the words out before they both do something they regret, Hughie blurts, “I slept with Annie.”

He cringes, after, screws his face up and wonders how he went the entire rest of his life without any of this drama, the possessiveness, the technically-still-married man who wanted a piece of him that he never dared show anyone else. The woman who was perfect for him in every way except the one that really matters.

He’s really expecting Butcher to snarl, to fume, but this conversation follows none of their regular patterns and he just laughs, low and dark and contemplative, barely pauses in his musings. “Oh. Sweet, soft Annie. Did she give you what you wanted? Leave bite marks and bruises on your skin? Play with your nipples until you begged for the needle? Yes, I remember. All that power and she didn't hurt you once. She's sunshine and light. And you want the darkness to hold you down and fuck you bloody.”

Hughie sobs out his, “Yes,” wishes Butcher wasn’t right, that he hadn’t seen right through him, wishes he was something different, someone who could want all that Annie offers him. He wishes he didn’t want the pain, that he didn’t crave the feeling of trusting enough to suffer, but the promise of it takes hold of his heart and twists. Plaintively, because he’s hard and alone and the touch of his hand won’t be enough now he knows he can have this, he pants, “When are you coming home?”

“Right after you come for me.”

He can hear Butcher’s smile, every one of his teeth, the bone-deep satisfaction that suffuses him at having Hughie under his control.

It makes Hughie shudder, so his voice comes out tremulous and all he can say is equal parts anticipatory and terrified, “Oh, God.”

“My favourite sound is that low, winded moan when I stretch you open around my cock. I've been so good to you, Hughie. Gentle, and kind, because I can't resist the feel of you around my fingers or the taste of you on my tongue. You whine and you squirm like nothing else when I'm licking you open. You'd let me do anything, for that. Fuck, you taste so good. Are you hard yet, Hughie?”

“Yes.” There’s no possible way he couldn’t be. He can feel the shape of himself through his jeans, is still squeezing from outside them because then maybe he can deny he’s really getting off to this. He’s detached, somehow, from the reality of how easily he can be twisted to Butcher’s will with some well-chosen, violent, soul-stealing words.

“Don't come yet,” Butcher warns him, deceptively gently for the torture he’s inflicting, telling Hughie to stop when he’s- so fucking close. Somehow Hughie takes his shaking hand away, leans heavily against the wall, waits for more. 

“Breathe,” Butcher urges, and it’s only the promise in his tone that convinces Hughie it’s a good idea, makes him clench his fists instead of giving in. “'Cause I'm gunna tell you how I'm gunna fuck you as soon as I walk through that door. And you'll need to be ready or I'll take you dry and you'll love every second of it.”

“Fuck fuck fuck.” It takes a phenomenal effort not to come just at those words, in that voice, with how they slam into him and take residence inside of him. Helpless, breathless, his awareness of anything but Butcher fading, he barely even registers saying, pleading, “How do you do this.”

“Because you want me to. Pinch your nipples for me, get them all hot and pink and swollen. So they'll still be sore and sensitive by the time I get there. If you don’t whimper and writhe with the pain the first time I touch them, I'll know you didn't do it properly. Come on. So you can barely stand feeling them rub against the inside of your shirt. Like they'll bleed if you go the tiniest bit harder.”

Hughie’s doing as he’s told, sliding his free hand up beneath his shirt to touch, and then to pinch, and pull, his breathing coming faster as he works at one, and then the other. With the phone still pressed to his ear, he can’t do anything but take it slow, let it build.

“Fuck, yes,” Butcher breathes the first time Hughie whines, when both of his nipples are hard and swollen and switching between them feels like a kind of static shock, so much more sensitive than he’s prepared for, every time. His cock presses uncomfortably against his zipper, but Butcher hasn’t told him to take off his pants, and every roll of his hips that’s supposed to lessen the pain only makes it worse.

With a helpless sob, he lets his head drop back against the door, legs shaking. “I can't- I can't, Butcher, please-”

Fortunately for him, Butcher is feeling benevolent, and he knows exactly what Hughie needs to hear. “Such a good boy, Hughie. You can't hurt them any more? That's okay. You in bed, now? Away from prying eyes? Because this is mine, this pain. This broken, desperate version of you belongs to me. You give it to nobody else.”

On trembling legs, Hughie staggers over to the bed, collapses on it gratefully, hunching over with the pain and the mixed messages it’s sending to his cock. Mindlessly, with only the barest concept of what he’s saying but no less conviction for it, he agrees, “Yes. Only you.”

“That’s it. Get some lube, now, or some lotion, whatever you've got to hand, and don't tell me there isn't any.”

Hughie has lube, and he’s never been more grateful for it. He reaches for his bag, stuffed under the bed, rummages until he finds the bottle. “Got it.”

“Fuck, I wish I was there, seeing you. Roll onto your front for me-”

“Oh, god-” Hughie despairs, feels tears prick at his eyes at the prospect. But he doesn’t at any point say no. There’s too much of a guilty thrill shooting through him, undeniable and anticipatory.

“Yeah,” with clear relish, Butcher agrees. “And then push your jeans and your pants down, and get your knees under you. You know what I want, come on. How are those nipples feeling?”

It’s agony, fresh and raw, putting his weight on his chest as Hughie presents, ass in the air for an invisible audience of one. For a moment it swamps him, the lust and the humiliation and the tangible sense of Butcher’s savage enjoyment. “Hurts,” he bites out, somehow, vision tinged red at the edges, his whole body trembling as he fights to maintain his position, to settle in for whatever Butcher has planned. He has to put his phone on speaker again, on the sheets close by, but the music outside is as loud as ever. He doesn’t think anyone else can hear, as long as neither of them shouts. 

“Perfect. I think you know what's coming. Slick your fingers. And reach back, and get yourself ready for me. I want to be hearing the sloppy sounds of how wet and open you are before you even think about stopping. And don't come. Because I'll know. And the moment you do, I'll stop talking.”

Oh- no, Hughie doesn’t want that. He does as he’s told, braces himself on one arm with a hiss for the pain of his poor, abused nipples, thumbs the bottle open and pours it liberally over his whole hand. As he reaches back, he can hear Butcher breathing, low and even, but quick, like Hughie’s doing something worth listening to.

It burns, that first finger. It’s been too long since he did this for his body to easily accept the intrusion, and he’s not yet so far gone as to embrace the pain, still working through the tension in his muscles. The angle is awkward, and twisting to get a better one makes him whine with the heat in his chest. Butcher can be so fucking cruel. Hughie misses him with a sudden, deep intensity, clings to the sound of his voice as he murmurs encouragement.

“Take as long as you need. Doing so well, darling. Don't hold back. If you wanna beg, then beg. Maybe it'll help.” But Butcher’s accompanying laugh is dark, full of promise. Hughie thinks about doing it anyway, but he can’t get his mouth to shape the words. 

“You told me to ruin you, once. Do you remember that? I still held back. Didn't want to hurt you. Needed you fit to walk the next day. But there's no fucking rush now, is there. We've got all the time in the world.” He pauses, maybe thinking, maybe just listening to Hughie’s increasingly laboured breathing, the whines that escape him when he doesn’t have the sense left to clamp down on them. “How many fingers is that, making you struggle?”

It’s- “Two.” Hughie’s fingers are slim but not enough to make that transition easy or smooth, and he grits his teeth against the pained sounds that escape him. 

Still, though, the line is blurred enough for arousal to build. He likes this, in the dark parts inside him he’s not always willing to acknowledge, the ones Butcher wants to be able to reach in and pull out of him with his bare hands. He knows something good is coming, that soon the pain will shift into the satisfying fulfilment he craves but can rarely find.

And the voice in his ear puts words to something he’s always wanted, but never figured out how to request.

“Oh, it’s been so long. Or are you just having to go slow, because being worked open while having my voice in your ear is just too much for you to bear. Love how much you love this.”

Through the haze, it’s the first time Hughie can hear Butcher also stroking himself, the rhythmic, slick motions of his fist over his cock, between the dark rumbles of his voice.

“Gunna be so tight and hot, just for me. Gunna have to put my hand over your mouth to stop you from screaming when I pull you back onto my cock, gunna go so deep you can fucking feel me at the back of your throat. Those fingers of yours are nothing like enough to prepare you for how hard I’m gunna go. You dripping yet, baby?”

Fuck. Fuck, how could Hughie not be, with that image so vivid in his mind he can practically feel Butcher wrapped around him, pushing inside. Thumbing at the reddened and swollen peaks of his nipples to make him squirm. Somehow, he manages a vaguely affirmative sound in response to Butcher’s question.

“Taste it. Take your fingers out your tight little hole if you have to, if you need that arm for balance. And taste it.”

Hughie does have to, and he keens at the loss then groans as, shifting his weight, he brushes the tips of his clean fingers over the weeping tip of his cock to collect the fluid there. It’s so tempting to linger, to touch, to take hold and stroke. His cock leaps into his touch, his stomach clenches with how good it feels, and he makes helpless, wet sounds as he sucks on his fingers, tastes salt and sex and shivers at Butcher’s low, rumbling moan of approval.

“Imagine it’s me, in your mouth, giving you that gift, pushing down on your tongue and just threatening to make you choke on it.”

That sounds- blissfully good, and with just a little push, every little choking, gagging sound Hughie draws from his own throat with the press of his fingers makes Butcher’s breath hitch until he’s practically panting down the phone.

“So close, Hughie, that’s it. Never met anyone like you, sweet thing. Alright, reach back now, both hands. And hold yourself open for me. Stretched wide, come on. All pink and inviting. Oh, I am gunna make you scream, love.”

The promise sends sparks shooting down his spine, but it’s not what sticks in Hughie’s mind. He’s heard Butcher use that address before. It’s casual, generally accompanied by a cheeky wink to waitresses, parking attendants, strangers in bars. It’s just- a British thing. But through intention or accident, Butcher’s never used it with him. He’s not sure what it means, but accompanied with the deeper, hotter stretch, both hands on his cheeks, spreading them apart, fingertips pulling at the resistance of his hole, it makes him let out a helpless, strangled whine that’s barely muffled by the press of his face into his sheets.

And then there’s the incongruously gentle sound of Butcher coming with a sigh. Hughie whines at the loss, the sheer lack of being able to feel it, here and hard and shivering while Butcher is miles away, coming into his hand instead of on Hughie’s skin, or inside of him.

“Shh, baby. Not long now. I’m right here, still listening. Wish I could make you come myself but that’ll have to wait for later.” Still catching his breath, Butcher’s already sounding more like himself, smug and satisfied rather than disjointed and half-mad. Hughie can hardly believe this conversation started with grief and melancholy, kind of wishes he could have recorded it except by the sound of things, Butcher will soon be around to tell him all those things in person.

“Fuck, you are something else, Hughie. Absolutely perfect. How should I have you come for me? Oh, I wanna be there. Wanna taste it, wanna wrap a hand around your cock and stare into your eyes and watch you shatter open, just for me. So fucking beautiful. Could you take me, if I was there? Could I slide right in or would I still have to shove and feel you give way beneath me?”

Somehow, Hughie slurs, through the full-body shudders of his desperation, “Right in. Be easy. Please, Butcher-”

“Such a good boy for me.” Butcher purrs, and then miraculously he takes mercy, “I want your fingers buried in your arse as you come. However you can get comfy, because I need you to get used to that feeling. Being held open. You’ll barely be able to come without it, any more, by the time I’m finished with you. Don’t hold back now, Hughie. I wanna hear you.”

Hughie couldn’t hold back his sounds if he tried, can’t bring himself to move despite the awkwardness of the angle because it would just take too long, just twists one arm a little further back and pushes three fingers inside, burning a little with the friction of the thinning lube but easy, with the weak resistance of his muscles. He gasps around the vulnerability, is newly reminded of the abuse he inflicted earlier on his nipples as leaning his weight on them causes pain to spark through him and smoulder in his chest, lighting him up from the inside.

Fuck, Butcher’s cracking him open and he’s not even there, just breathing heavily in Hughie’s ear, making little soothing murmurs of encouragement, urging him on, groaning long and low at whatever animal sound Hughie makes when he finally gets a hand around his cock, sweet relief and a tense, vibrant stab of pleasure. Everything fades away, just white noise and sensation left. He thinks he’s coming, but he’s not sure, busy unravelling every thread of tension that’s been wrapped around him for longer than he even knows. 

It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced, giving in to it, trusting that his body will make it through, that his mind will return to him once the stars stop exploding in his vision and his body returns to within his control. 

He’s faded back in and found himself but the words seem to come from unbearably far away when Butcher asks him, “You okay?”

Hughie takes stock. He’s sprawled on his bed, on top of ruined sheets, in a spreading puddle of his own come, heart rate only barely beginning to slow. His nipples are aching, his ass sore. “I- think so.”

“Well. Take your time. I’m here.”

“Wish you were here,” Hughie’s too cracked open and empty not to say, wishing he wasn’t here alone, but although he cringes, expectant, there’s no snide comment, no chastisement for the expression of emotion.

“I will be.” Butcher promises instead, and he sounds like he cuts himself off from saying more, pauses, maybe begins to put up his walls again except his voice is still gently firm when he adds, “Hughie. I'll be a few hours, alright. Yes?”

Hughie smiles, just barely. Manic and intense as he’s been, Butcher still doesn’t want to shatter him completely. His body doesn’t want to respond, but he manages a confirmatory, “Yes,” before Butcher deems him too fragile for the next stage of their game.

“Good. Tell MM to stop going through my shit. See you soon.”

It sounds like a threat. Hughie can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics in italics are courtesy of Billy Joel, with thanks: [And So It Goes, on youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHO6a2H-pqY&ab_channel=billyjoelVEVO)
> 
> And horribly butchered (ha) quotes are from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.


End file.
